They dropped like stars, like petals from a rose
by Spockchick
Summary: What if Gaila didn't make it? Three comrades give their tributes: Scotty, the lover; Uhura, the friend; and McCoy, the surgeon. Frank discussion of the body after death, hence rating. There is a flower in Edinburgh that blooms but once, then dies...
1. Jade

A/N: Beta SpockLovesCats. This will, in the next chapter, discuss in frank terms, the body after death.

* * *

**1/3 - Jade**

Dropped in a gap opened up by inquiries, repairs and shock, he tours the cities and towns of Scotland with his hands jammed firmly in his coat pockets, and his eyes on nobody. An exclusion zone fits about him like a bell-jar.

There is a flower in Edinburgh that blooms but once then dies; a magnificent trailing spray of green petals that reach joyfully towards the roof of the tropical palm-house in the Royal Botanic Garden.

He crouches down on his haunches to examine fallen blossoms, wondering exactly what is the difference between a petal and a leaf. In this case, both are green, but the flowers shine, translucent and luminous with a light tint of sapphire, causing the eye of every visitor to be drawn in. All light in the room is absorbed then emitted by the flowers, so that they float in the space, illuminated from within. It is a brave specimen; hardy, and an efficient climber. Tendrils find their way to every purchase, anchoring it so it is strong enough to bear the weight of its final flourish.

If what ifs were credits, this visitor to the garden would be a wealthy man. He is already displaced, his trajectory altered by events he does not fully comprehend. Is there another of him somewhere else? Not crouching in a Victorian glasshouse, looking at the floor, but up there? Laughing, working, _loving_?

What if his swagger hadn't got the better of him? Instead, overconfidence led him by the nose to consigning a senior officer's pet to molecular separation.

Her face; her face was a storm. She smacked him then, "What do you mean, re-assigned? You work here!" Wild, red curls flew as she did, and on their final night, he heard her soft crying while he feigned sleep. In the morning, he made a clumsy attempt to make things better; he made them worse. Isn't that always the way? He told her it was for the best, she was a cadet, he was an instructor. Afterwards he wished to bite back every trite word, but once offered, they could not be recalled. And now her eyes, as he told his lies, appear each time he tries to close his own.

Friends got messages to him; he heard she was with someone called Kirk. He knew her, it would be a bit of fun; it was always a bit of fun. The consolation for the consequence of his juvenile prank was to repeat this falsehood until it became his truth. Sometimes he would forget he was supposed to believe it.

One bloom on the ground shines brighter than the others; fresh, healthy and strong. It is not apparent why it is fallen. Someone must have brushed against it, detaching it from its companions. Cause and effect. With a care that makes no sense, he lifts the bloom and casts it into the Japanese pond where it drifts, light and bright beside the dark, arched bridge, like a body in space.

Montgomery Scott unfolds his limbs and wraps his coat around him, despite the damp heat. Pulling his collar up, and his hat down, he walks from the tropical atmosphere into the freezing Edinburgh fog.

_And I said, let grief be a fallen leaf at the dawning of the day.*_

-End-

*Poem: On Raglan Road, 1946 © Estate of Patrick Kavanagh,


	2. All the small things

**A/N**: Beta, SpockLovesCats. **Triggers: **Frank depiction of care of the body after death; death of a loved one in conflict.

This is an accidental companion piece to the wonderful _Fifty Six Lives And A Pair Of Tweezers_ by Rainstorm Amaya Arianrhod,which is the flipside to this demoralising tale. If you want to see another outcome, please read her story. It is in my favourites.

* * *

**2/3 - All**** The ****Small**** Things**

It used to be a symbol of friendship, of connection. Now it sits before her on a cafeteria table, a primed explosive, the means of communicating destruction, death and devastation. It beeps; her chest constricts.

"Uhura," it's McCoy, his voice down a well. She recognises the empty swimming pool echo of the Starfleet mortuary. "I'm sorry, we got some recoveries... bodies. We've got Gaila. I thought you would want to know. I wish I could have told you properly, not this damned way."

It was buried deep, but it was there. Relief_. _Having her friend back was an unexpected blessing. "Can I see her? It doesn't seem real..."

"Of course you can, anything, of course. Come now. She's with us 'till morning."

.

She was greeted by an officious nurse, red-faced and breathing overly-loud.

"Relationship?"

"I – I'm her friend, her room-mate."

"I got only next of kin here."

"Please, I need to – "

"Sorry, not on the list."

"Well who is on the list?"

The stylus taps a tattoo on the nurse's Padd. "Nobody, family are still on Orion."

"Nobody?"

She knows her voice is now an ugly snarl. Supreme effort is required to stop herself from violence. "Let me in, she's not a nobody! She has friends who love her! You officious bitch!"

Uhura is aware of a tall, blonde woman on the fringes of her altercation. She steps smoothly to the nurse's side. "I'll take this. Carter, why don't you go for a break?

"Sorry about that, she's a volunteer auxiliary. They didn't sign up for this, and when it hits them, they have a judgement failure."

The kindness is so apposite that Uhura bursts into hot tears. Sobs wrack her body and the blonde's arms circle her, and guide her into a chair. She says nothing, just allows the tide to ebb.

"I escaped. It was a mistake. I was on the wrong ship." These phrases are punctuated by ragged, staccato gasps, almost hiccups.

"I know, I was on the Enterprise with Doctor Puri. We worked here together."

This was a shock; the nurse seemed composed.

"How do you cope?"

"I behave the way I think he would."

.

She is led past bodies on gurneys, in white Starfleet body-bags. There are so few compared to the crew on a ship. Most of them are now carbon, dust in the vacuum, and nothing for their families to hold on to. The majority will make do with a communal memorial, names among names, laser-etched in stone. Is their commemoration among others a comfort, or a dilution of their individuality? Uhura thinks it is both.

They stop outside a small ante-room, a viewing area, and she knows McCoy has organised this. The special treatment afforded to the _Enterprise_ crew is mortifying, but today she is grateful.

At the door the nurse imparts basic information. She is brisk; she has done this before and knows it is not the time for sentiment. "She suffered minor burns to the shoulder, the primary cause of death was carbon dioxide poisoning." Uhura knows this is the nurse's way of telling her that Gaila is not in a mess. Mouth tight, she nods and the nurse opens the door and lets Uhura in. "Press the comm if you need anything, and stay as long as you need, OK?"

"Thank you." It comes out as a necessary whisper; an increase of volume would cause more tears.

Left alone, Uhura is unsure what to do, she approaches Gaila, and pulls up the only chair in the room. For ten minutes, she just sits in the frigid space, staring ahead.

"Oh, babe, you must be hot in there." With a shaking hand, she grasps the zipper on the bag and pulls it down, exposing Gaila to the waist. Once verdant, her complexion is faded to dark olive with a grey undertone. She is cleaned of make-up, minus her black under-shirt, and her uniform dress sits in such a way that Uhura knows it is not closed at the back. The right shoulder of the dress is full of holes, rimmed with jet beads of charred and melted synthetic fabric. Beneath the holes, Gaila's skin shines bright and white, and Uhura pulls the shoulder of the dress away. A cosmetic field-mortician's repair has been attempted with syntheskin, but it's not the right colour. Uhura wonders if this had been her, would they have made a better attempt at a match? She is human, after all. Once luxuriant, the flame hair is singed and brittle on the side of the burn.

Kicking the chair in frustration, she presses the comm and puts on an accent not her own, using the final, frayed strand of her composure. "Doctor McCoy to viewing room four please, Doctor McCoy to viewing room four."

McCoy appears 'round the door. "Uhura! You'd make a good secret agent. Ever thought of Starfleet Intelligence? I thought you were that short red-faced b- uh, witch."

"I don't want her to be alone on her last night with – " Her lips stiffen half-way through the sentence, her breathing jerks, and she knows she can't continue. He gives her a minute. "Can I stay?"

"You'll freeze here, sweetheart."

Tears flow at the endearment. "I'll go back, get a jacket, and... do you – do you mind if - if _I_ tidy her up? I want to. P-please?" She is pleading, mindful of the officious nurse who greeted her.

"Of course you can; she always likes to look her best." The doctor's eyes are kind, but heavy with fatigue, and his hair is in disarray. He looks as if everything about him is in need of repair.

.

An hour later, she returns, with only a vague memory of her trip back to their dorm. A large holdall accompanies her. It contains a thermal sleeping bag, and some of Gaila's possessions, make-up and clothes.

There is only one way of getting through this.

"Look at you, no make-up! What would your mother say? I'm going to even up your hair, Gaila, it's a sight." Scissors scritch-scratch through the curls and she trims away the scorched fibres, just managing to push the Orion's head over enough so she can trim behind, and fix the hair to a relatively uniform length.

"See babe, that's much better now, you don't look so funny." What to do with the leftover hair, she's not sure. She gropes in Gaila's make-up bag for a hair band, makes the unburned locks into a twist and ties them, placing them in the bag. Perhaps her family would take comfort from a lock.

"We're going to do something about that stupid shoulder, Gaila. What the hell were they thinking? You look like a patchwork quilt." Pulling open the dress further at the neck, she discovers the garment has been cut completely up the back, so it is a simple matter to pull it away, and off her arms. "God, Gaila, you weigh a ton. I'm sure you weren't this heavy before when we were..." She slumps in the chair, her throat tight. "I'm sorry babe, I don't think I can do this, I can't... I don't know how to lift a..." Uhura's face is wet and she rubs it like an overtired child. As if by magic, there is a soft knock at the door. "Come in."

It's the blonde nurse from before. "I've got a twenty minute break. You want a hand?"

Uhura blinks rapidly. "Yes, I thought I could do it, but she's so heavy."

Together, they turn Gaila so Uhura can use the Orion's concealer to cover up the unsightly white patch. It is no longer the right shade, but it is better. Then they re-dress her in her good underwear and a fresh Starfleet shirt and dress. The nurse doesn't speak much, but she is almost telepathically aware of Uhura's intentions, and allows her to chatter on to Gaila as if she can hear, aiding by stealth. By the time the nurse leaves again for her shift, Gaila is lying on her back, uniformed and booted, the picture of serenity.

"I'll give you a little make-up, hon. Not too much. A bit of lipstick. There, you don't look so pale now. There's some mascara. What colour would you like? Brown? I think brown is best." Uhura finishes combing the small brush through her friend's lashes. "I'm just going to put your nice dress and shoes in this bag for your family. I don't know what they'll want you to wear. I know your stuff will get sent on but I don't know how long that'll take."

She retrieves a soft, drawstring bag she'd brought, the kind you get with an expensive handbag or shoes, and a small plushie dog. "There, I'll put Poochie in here too; he'll keep you company on your journey. They'll wonder what he is on Orion, seeing as you don't have dogs." She slips Gaila's make-up bag in as well. "Perhaps they will want to make you even more pretty."

At this last statement, Uhura slumps into the chair and breaks like a boat on the rocks. In between sobs, she apologises to her friend. "I'm sorry Gaila... look at me... a fine officer I'll make. We're – we're supposed to be able to..." She tails off, wiping snot from her nose.

After a half-hour she is almost breathing normally. Now that Uhura is inactive, the cold of the refrigerated room is bitter on her skin. She climbs into the sleeping bag to resume her watch, and in the watery light of the room, she talks. She talks about a cadet they both liked, an instructor they both hated, the thrill of coming to another country. She talks of shoes, Starfleet and replicator coffee, and a hundred other small things.

.

At shift's end, Doctor McCoy opens the door, thankful for the mortuary's quiet technology. He smiles at Uhura, who lies fast asleep sitting in the chair, her cheek on the cold, hard surface beside Gaila. She is wearing an odd knitted hat he thinks he's seen before, and is wrapped like a grub in a sleeping bag. He gives a gentle cough, and she raises her head, looking about in confusion for a second.

"Mornin' doll, I got us some coffee. It's like Alaska in here."

She takes the covered cup from him. "Thank you," and he knows it's not for the coffee.

"I'm sorry, but I've come to tell you the boys are coming to take her in a couple of minutes." She nods blankly and, worried she is in shock, he asks, "Do you understand, sweetheart?"

"Yes." She's more sure now, more awake.

"I'll give you a minute."

.

She wriggles out of the sleeping bag and rolls it back up, removes Scotty's hat and pushes them both into her carry-all. There is a soft knock on the door, and it opens to reveal two tall security men in dress reds. Their boots are polished to a mirror finish, the creases in their trousers could cut paper, and their white gloves glow. They guide a rich, mahogany casket and, under one man's arm is a silk Starfleet flag, folded into a triangle. They are as disruptive as a breeze. The first man lifts the casket lid; it is lined in rich, green satin. They lift Gaila in so smoothly that Uhura hardly sees it happen, and the second man puts his hands on the lid to close it. Jolted, she remembers the bag.

"Stop, I have things for her; clothes in case her family doesn't – " _want __her __buried __in __a __Starfleet __uniform _is left unsaid. One man nods and takes the bag from her. He looks inside and Uhura is taken by a sudden, inappropriate urge to laugh. Was he looking for contraband? Do people smuggle drugs in coffins? He removes Poochie, and Uhura wants to protest, but the occasion seems so formal she can't bring herself to speak out.

He places the bag at Galia's feet, and the little dog up at her head, beside her burnt shoulder. Uhura closes her eyes tight, and tries to breathe. When she opens them, the lid is down and they are draping the silk flag over the casket; it falls almost to the ground, swaying like a heavy gown. The taller of the men stands in front, the smaller behind, and straight-backed they guide Gaila on her last journey on Earth. Uhura walks out behind them, and is greeted by the most unexpected sight: dozens of silk-covered mahogany caskets being guided by upright men and women. The medical staff are lined up against the walls of the passageway, even the small, officious nurse.

Along with McCoy, she joins them, and sentry-like, they keep watch over their comrades, flowing out of the Starfleet mortuary and into the bright, blue morning.

-END-


	3. I am surfing, streaming, light trailing

**A/N: **Beta, SpockLovesCats. I thank her, for her tolerance of my tweaking after the event. I own no part of Star Trek, and I profit not.

* * *

**3/3 - I am surfing, streaming, light trailing my heels**

He almost never does this. It's illegal, but the subterfuge, scummy clothing and fake identity he used to procure his stash make the act all the more seductive. Sitting among rocks on the shore, he lays out instruments with a surgeon's precision. He could be caught. Up all night, signing release forms and preparing bodies – a pitiful few recoveries, considering the mass death – he doesn't care. Now he needs a shave – and a wash. Exhaustion like this hasn't lain on him since he was a junior doctor working nights.

He needs to get laid, to feel live, warm flesh beneath his hands, plump with the beat of blood, slick with sweat. He needs it to blot out the feel of dead, cold flesh, limp with loss of fluids. His hands have been under the steri-light so often in the last few days he swears they are getting tanned. Pathology never appealed to him; he likes his patients breathing.

Almost ten years older than most of his classmates, and a qualified doctor before he even joined Starfleet, this status earned him 'the ducks', a bunch of starstruck girls who followed him around like a trail of ducklings. Uhura christened them, and his frequent, sly escape from his posse was always greeted by, 'No ducks today, Len?' He is sure one of the ducks would oblige him, if they are still here. In this aftermath of conflict, survivors rut in frantic, life-affirming relief.

His hand slides into his jacket, no longer cadet red but the charcoal of an officer, and draws out a slim flask of bourbon. Half the contents are swallowed in one shot. Out in the Golden Gate there is no trace left of Nero's drill, it is long dismantled and taken to Starfleet labs to be poked and prodded by geeks. Not that it'll make a damned bit of difference; what's done is done, what is lost will never be retrieved and what is broken will never be repaired. When this block of shifts are over, he will go to Joanna, hug her 'till she almost breaks, and promise to send her a message every single day when he goes back up in that God-forsaken tin can. And he will keep his promise.

From the rock, he plucks a small brass instrument, an antique from the nineteenth century, and fits the end of a fat Cuban cigar – his contraband – into it. With a click, the tip is snipped and he sparks up a less aged, twenty-first century implement to light it, taking cool vanilla smoke into the back of his mouth, its flavours mingling with the bourbon. Back to being a child, he is with his father and uncle, who sit furtively on the stoop, having a sly, shady smoke and a chinwag, away from the disapproving eye of his mother – _That'll kill you, David. _Yeah, well a lot of things'll do that.

Ash falls on his pants; carbon, nitrogen, hydrogen. As he brushes it away he thinks of each one of the atoms in a living body; every single one forged in the furnace of deep space. How many were returned there by Nero, to be re-made? Too many to comprehend. In a few million years those atoms could be in a diamond.

Or an emerald. _  
_  
On the day he decided to enlist, the day he met Jim, McCoy made a sarcastic comment about his wife 'taking the whole planet' in the divorce. Now he cringes at the joke and hears Spock's voice, speaking as a member of an endangered species. "I've noticed that about your people, Doctor. You find it easier to understand the death of one than the death of a million. You speak about the objective hardness of the Vulcan heart, yet how little room there seems to be in yours."

And yet, here he sits, mourning the death of one.

Gaila has made Jim Kirk a man, only he doesn't know it yet. It isn't the first time McCoy's friend has used a woman to get what he wanted and it isn't the first time he was less than honest with a girl, but it will be the last. Women who get the bum's rush from Jim frequently cry, make a bit of a scene then turn up a few times at the dorm where he always sweet-talks them into believing it's all for the best. Hey, they should stay friends, and everything will be just dandy. Sometimes they even wind up thinking they have broken up with _him_.

But he can't get around Gaila with his cheeky grin, wise-ass remarks and boyish charm. Gaila isn't here to apologise to, and the guilt will turn James Tiberius Kirk into a man worthy of his grandfathers' names.

In the end, _she_ is Jim's Kobayashi Maru, his no-win situation, and he can't re-program the outcome. McCoy thinks of her beaming face, how she always smiled at him, and how he was pathetically grateful for her approbation. She didn't walk, she _bounced, _like a puppy. Each day brought her new things to be excited about and she summoned up enthusiasm for classes he would gladly have slept through.

Here, In this universe, a happy girl must die. She must die in order to turn the only genius-level repeat offender in the Midwest into a man worthy of a Starship Captaincy. It would have happened eventually, but in this time-line of enforced promotion, disability and death, it has to happen _fast._

McCoy gathers his gear and flicks the butt of his cigar into a rock-pool.

He just hopes it is all worth it.

.

What could matter  
if these boys,  
if all men,  
were not just memories like emeralds,  
or pungent basil,  
new snow,  
throwing their scuffed leather jackets carelessly  
over my empty bed,  
while I am surfing,  
streaming,  
light trailing my heels,  
from galaxy to galaxy,  
trying to escape death? *

.

**– **The End –

*Verse from poem _Emerald Ice_. © Diane Wakoski, 1987, quoted under non-profit, fair use terms.

Title of trio taken from poem _They dropped like flakes, they dropped like stars_. Emily Dickinson (1830-1886), out of copyright.


End file.
